Mary Gentle - Grunts

Perdita gave her trademark lopsided grin into the silver eyes of the pigeon’s magical sound-and-vision memory.

“Readers, this dishonourable encampment is holding up the great Lord Amarynth himself as he destroys the last remnants of the Horde. I came here expecting to report his swift, glorious victory. These orc warriors—or orc marines , as this strange tribe prefer to be called—don’t have a Dark Mage with them, which normally would make this a very short engagement. Of course, you may wonder why Warrior of Fortune is bothering with such orcish scum…”

The elf put her fists on her leather-clad hips.

“Firstly there is their unorcish courage. I shall be bringing you some orcish-interest stories later on. But, more importantly, these orcs have acquired from somewhere a variety of strange, magical weapons. A detailed report of these follows—right now.”

She snapped her fingers. The pigeon’s eyes returned to black-and-gold. It shivered. She picked the bird up, her hands warming its frostbitten feathers, and threw it high. It scuttered into flight, winging its way unharmed above the snow-covered tents of the Light.

Major Barashkukor abandoned his desk—completely covered in guard rosters, stores allocations, transfers of weapons, itineraries, stock lists, and personnel forms in quadruplicate—and studied his reflection in the fortress office’s polished stone mirror. He carefully settled a pair of dark sunglasses on his snout. He adjusted the holster at his belt so that the .44 Magnum pistol hung more comfortably and tugged on a pair of tight black leather gloves over his clawed fingers.

His aide hammered on the door. “Major! She’s there!”

Barashkukor picked up a low-crowned black hat, its wide brim rolled up at either side. The hatband was decorated with a small tuft of feathers. After some thought he reluctantly removed the decoration’s centrepiece—a dried elf’s ear—and tugged the brim down over his forehead. His Stetsoned reflection looked back at him through Ray·Bans.

“Yo the marines!” he beamed, and left the tower.

The female elf waited with his junior officers on the inner wall parapet, overlooking the central compound. Barashkukor strolled briskly up to join her, a dazzled smile widening his lipless mouth. He signalled to the assembled marines by the Research and Development sheds. “Begin the weapons tests, corporal!”

“Yessir!” Corporal Ugarit, too-large boots crunching through the snow, saluted his superior officer. A new light glinted in his porcine eyes.

“One!” Ugarit announced. “The precision-guided, fully automatic trebuchet, with smart warhead. Fire!”

BOOM!

The large orc by the war-catapult heaved a heavy wooden lever down. The catapult arm rose, hurtling a vast chunk of stone and metal into the air; fell back, rose again, and another missile whammed into the air. Another; and another…

Barashkukor stood on the parapet beside the Warrior of Fortune correspondent, small fists on hips, watching the missiles fall. Snow sifted down from a grey sky, and a wet cold wind seared his exposed flesh. The small orc grinned, unmoved, as the first missile described a lazy parabola that would take it well past the enemy camp.

In mid-air it zigged, zagged, and proceeded to crash through the roof of a concealed sapper’s diggings. Distant cries came up through the snowy air. Perdita blinked in amazement. Barashkukor reached up to pat the female elf’s arm, his spindly, hairless ears straightening.

“Spectacular, isn’t it? We have a superb Research Unit, ma’am. We can match anything Amarynth can throw at us.”

“Two,” Ugarit shouted, “the repeating crossbow. Radar-guided bolts, fires bursts at three bolts per second. Fire!”

One orc held up a bulky crossbow, pointing it over the parapet at the enemy tents. A gunner walked up to it, twisted her forage cap back to front on her forehead, squinted through the sights, and pulled the trigger.

TAKKA-TAKKA-TAKKA-DUKKA-FOOM!

Heavy steel-headed crossbow bolts shrapnelled the hundred yards between the fort and the first tents, shredding canvas, collapsing stores, ricocheting through the smith’s and barber’s tents. Armed Men and elves dived for cover while the useless shimmer of a protective spell shot up into the chill air.

“Yo!” Ugarit’s tilted eyes flashed with an unearthly shine. The tall corporal wore a steel helmet well down on his head, and a heavy-duty flak jacket strapped around his skinny body. Barashkukor glanced down from the parapet at the orc, who stood something over a metre taller than he did, and made a command decision to let the weapons tests go ahead unhindered.

“Three—smart personal weapons! Ready to demonstrate, sir and ma’am!”

Ugarit skittered up and down the line of waiting marines in the compound, handing out poleaxes and warhammers with jutting metallic and cable additions and adjuncts.

“Fire-and-forget hand weaponry! Remember, these weapons are smarter than you are, so just swing them and let them do the rest. No, no! Let me get out of the way first!”

Squeaking, the tall corporal loped up the steps and took refuge on the snow-covered parapet beside Barashkukor and the female elf. The orc marine squad below spat on their horny hands, gripped the unfamiliar shafts of adapted polearms, and raised them.

SPLAT!

Barashkukor winced. A casual swipe from one poleaxe hacked off one marine’s arm, twisted in mid-air to block another weapon, changed trajectory one hundred and eighty degrees and smashed an orc-skull, described three separate curves in the space of milliseconds, and dragged its wielder back out of the fight by sheer momentum.

A smart warhammer drove into that patch of snow-covered earth two seconds later, rebounded, and swung again.

Half the squad dragged their visibly unwilling weapons backwards. A squat and solid orc marine giggled, swinging his poleaxe with gusto. The endspike impaled an orc corporal. She swore. The axe blade swung the squat orc in a circle, and marines leaped out of range. The poleaxe lifted in its owner’s grip, hovered a second—

“Halt!” Barashkukor bellowed shrilly.

The poleaxe twisted up and over and whistled in a short arc, severing the squat orc’s own head. The trunk collapsed. Orc blood steamed and sizzled viridian in the snow.

The orc marine squad—having carefully put down their weaponry first—slapped each other on the back and set about gathering up severed limbs and the unlucky corpses. The squad leader kicked the bleeding orc-head thoughtfully and raised his head to gaze up at the parapet.

“Permission to hold an Orcball tournament, Major, sir?”

Barashkukor looked into the upsidedown eyes of the severed head. “Not until you go off-duty, marine.”

“Oh, that’s all right, sir. It’ll keep in this weather anyway.” The Marine First Class picked up the severed orc-head by the ears and walked back to his squad, debating in an undertone with his buddy. “You don’t get such a long game when they’ve gone squishy. They’re better good and solid. Maybe we can sell tickets…”

“No—I don’t want to know.” The female elf sat down a little suddenly on the snow-covered parapet. “Orcball?”

“Sometimes it’s a raffle,” Barashkukor said helpfully. He fussed, getting the tall, slender elf to her feet, brushing the caked snow off her leather trousers. He waved at his R&D squad. “Not entirely successful, Corporal Ugarit…”

“Nossir. And fourthly,” Ugarit said, eyes darting feverishly around, “my state-of-the-art invention. Personal powered armour. It’s a motherfucker of a defence. Just let them try to take me out now! I shall demonstrate this one myself, Major.”